


Millinery and the Express

by Ilthit



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Orient Express, Paris (City), Victorian, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4296240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical week in the life of A. J. Raffles, world-famous cricketer, and his particular friend Mr Manders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Millinery and the Express

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tootsiemuppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsiemuppet/gifts).



The Orient Express was to leave Paris with myself and Raffles in its most expensive cabins, one next to the other; a sumptuous hotel was booked for us in Istanbul; and the most elaborate wardrobe had been ordered from Raffles’ tailor, whom I shared whenever I was in funds. It was all settled by the time I first heard of it over a simple dinner at the Old Bohemian Club. It was the very thing, my friend told me, to cure my melancholy. 

“You did all of this for me?” My expression must have been wry, for Raffles laughed and accused me of lacking faith. Our intimacy had progressed to the point where I no longer expected Raffles to do anything without concealing another purpose behind it, whether this purpose was criminal or merely mischievous; indeed, my friend could be relied upon to hide even his benevolent purposes behind diversions and misdirects. Yet so remarkable were his powers of persuasion and so unfathomably in love with him was I that by the end of the evening, after talking up the mysteries of the orient enough to fill two slim novels and an adequate travel guide, he had quite convinced me that the entire trip was undertaken only to pamper me. I do not mean to say I am blameless; something akin to vanity in myself must have made the task easier.

In the second week of July a voyage across the channel is all that is to be desired. The hot sun above is not half so stifling with a steady breeze to cool your neck. I only envied the ladies their parasols and their hats, which according to the fashion of the day were quite large enough to function as parasols themselves. Raffles and I walked up and down the deck arm in arm, he still full of raptures about the eastern countries, myself happy simply to enjoy his conversation and the respite from London heat.

Provincial trains, alas, are nowhere near as pleasant, let alone carriages or navigating the train station once we finally arrived in Paris. Thankfully we had time to refresh ourselves at Raffles’ Paris club - he seemed to have a club in every European city - and take afternoon tea before we were due to head back to Gare de l'Est, where our luggage was waiting to be conveyed aboard the train. This we took in a small restaurant in the Boulevard Haussmann.

I was just warming to the subject of parasols and hats, when I noticed Raffles’ preoccupation. In company he was always the most charming of men, but as a function of our constant companionship, he might forget me completely more than a few times a day. I could tell he had done so now. His eyes traveled between the door and the ornate clock post on the pavement outside. My original suspicion returned.

“A. J.,” I said wearily, “are we expecting feminine company?”

“Bunny, what a notion,” said he, glancing again at the clock and frowning.

“A gentleman, then? Not one of your… more questionable contacts?” I imagined what a Parisian low-life might look like, but could only conjure up an image of your typical Whitechapel fellow in a beret.

“What! In a respectable little place like this? Don’t be absurd. Have a second croissant, Bunny, do. They don’t have half the craft to make decent viennoiserie in London. Ah! Here he is.” He rose to hail and greet a man who had just entered wearing an unseasonably severe overcoat.

Raffles introduced the gentleman to me as a M. Bourdieu-Lafey, myself to the gentleman as Arthur Goyle, esq., of Stepford, Goyle and Sons, and himself as Mr Stepford. Any sign of Byronic drawl vanished from his accent; no-one could sound more professional and perfunctory, even dry. I do not possess my friend’s skill at deceit, so what M. Bourdieu-Lafey thought of my tones, I cannot say. We exchanged a few pleasantries in French, which Raffles appeared to understand, despite having claimed on another occasion not to speak a word of any continental language. Bourdieu-Lafey, it turned out, was a solicitor.

We ordered a new round of coffee and Raffles and our guest embarked upon spirited negotiations. Raffles’ employer in London, a certain well-known milliner, was not yet sold on the proposal put forward by the family M. Bourdieu-LaFey was representing. Raffles had been given some leeway within certain parameters; he very much wished, but did not believe, that a solution could be arrived at in such a short time. If some term or another proved difficult for them to convey from one language to another, I made myself useful, but otherwise remained silent and advised M. Bourdieu-Lafey to direct his questions to Raffles, who was much more deeply involved in the case than I. As my looks were youthful, he seemed to take it for granted that I was one of the sons, and was easily persuaded.

The rest hardly needs telling. By appearing reluctant, Raffles perfectly convinced his mark of his honesty, and by the end of the conversation M. Bourdieu-Lafay thought himself very clever to have persuaded Raffles to take his money. Begging the gentleman’s pardon, Raffles requested they sign the papers at the bank, as we had a train to catch that evening. All this was easily accomplished, as M. Bourdieu-Lefay had right of attorney, and his client’s bank was the Crédit Lyonnais, a branch of which was fortunately situated around the corner from where we were sitting.

Not more than an hour later, having suffered no greater mishap than smudging our trousers in the press outside the station, we found our cabins, where our luggage was waiting for us. Raffles threw the bills (for which we had exchanged M. Bourdieu-Lafay’s cheque at a different branch) carelessly on the side-table and dragged back the curtains to look out onto the busy platform. The whistle went, the wheels turned, and with a great tug we were on our way.

Raffles let the curtains fall back, sat down upon the bed, and laughed. “What a feat, Bunny! I should not have done it if we hadn’t left London that very afternoon. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if the real Mr Goyle and Mr Stepford were already among the crowd here, unless of course they disembarked at Gare du Nord. It would have gone bad for us had young Mr Goyle run into us.”

“How so?”

“Never underestimate the value of a young man’s good opinion, Bunny. No-one is more careless with their father’s secrets. In fact, we owe all of our present good fortune to young Arthur. In other circumstances, Bunny, I rather think you would have liked him - you two are much alike.”

I sat down on the bed next to him - there are few places to sit in even the most expensive of sleeper cabins - discomfited less by the motion of the train than the weakness in my own knees. Unlike Raffles, I had no heroic illusions about what he and I were, but the thought of depriving a young man of his honour by impersonating him did not sit well with me, and that melancholy which Raffles had promised to banish returned.

Raffles read my face and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Come, Bunny, darling. Don’t let your conscience pain you for young Goyle’s sake! I should not have picked him had he not deserved it, or had his father not been worth all of Shropshire and Powys put together. I shall tell you all about it later. Right now, we are in funds, we are together, and for the next few weeks we will think of nothing but our own pleasure.”

Raffles was as good as his word, and I as much a fool as ever. Days and nights stretched and blended together while cities, fields and finally mountains rolled past our window. Raffles praised and petted me until I nearly forgot any other world existed.

In Budapest, we burgled the national museum. In Bucarest, a jeweller’s. 

 


End file.
